


Orders

by imbrem_aureum



Category: Monty Python's Life of Brian (1979)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, Lap Sex, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29643144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrem_aureum/pseuds/imbrem_aureum
Summary: In the middle of the night, Centurion Claye is summoned to Pilate's audience hall.
Relationships: First Centurion/Pontius Pilate
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Orders

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not aware of John's centurion having a name, so I've gone for Claye. Pilate has no wife in this story and I've aged him down so he's younger than Claye (though still of age.) I also know very little about Roman history, I just wanted these two characters to get it on. Enjoy!

Claye’s feet pounded stone, his head held high. He’d marched to the palace by moonlight without an entourage. As instructed, he was to attend Pilate’s audience hall despite the late hour, dragged from his bed by a messenger boy who appealed with only his eyes that Claye hurry in donning his uniform. That gave the centurion a clue as to what awaited him beyond the empty summons. Pilate was angry. 

The palace was silent. Soldiers guarding entranceways avoided eye contact while granting Claye’s passage. He could read his men, sense their discomfort. They were privy to Pilate’s latest fury. 

Candlelight spilled under the audience hall’s door, shadows catching in the narrow troughs between a freshly laid mosaic yet to be worn by footfall. Pilate had not governed here long, and he had yet to gain the respect of the Judeans. Respect would come, in time.

When the doors parted, the sconce flames bent in the shifted air toward the room’s single occupant. Pilate reclined at the top of the marble steps, equally pallid in his ivory drapery. His golden adornments reflected the candlelight as Claye stepped inside. As he stood to his governor’s attention, the thick doors swung closed behind him with an echoing thud, sealing him inside.

“Hail, Caesar,” Claye saluted firmly. The greeting was not returned, so he lowered his hand.

“Have you any idea why I summoned you, Centuwion?” Pilate’s voice was tight, a quiet anger simmering beneath his affected, casual tone. 

“No, sir.”

Pilate sat a little stiffer. “It has come to my attention that certain members of the pwaetorian guard have been openly mocking their wuler in the gawwison.” 

Ah, was that all? Well, Claye would defend his men’s honour. Besides, it was only a bit of harmless fun, some good-natured teasing that wasn’t supposed to be overheard. Whoever snitched would wish they hadn’t. 

“Never, sir.”

“I am not finished.” 

Claye dipped his head in apology, planning his response once Pilate had this latest tantrum out his system. He’d offer to track down the men responsible for the offending remarks and have them downgraded severely. Perhaps he’d comment that a downgrading was not enough for those who disrespected the great Pilate. Anything to stay on the governor’s good side. 

“I have it on good authowity that you were one of those guards, Centuwion.” 

Shit. Who was this so-called good authority? Who of lower rank dared come to Pilate behind his back? 

“Permission to speak, sir?” Claye tried.

“Wefused.” Pilate’s face flashed with anger. “I will not tolerate excuses.”

Eyes on the floor, Claye shook his head lightly, instinctively, wanting nothing more than to deny the accusations and set himself straight in the governor’s eyes. 

“Do not shake your head at me!” Pilate’s voice broke as it rose in volume, revealing a weakness Claye recognised. The great Pilate could not brook the smallest act of subordination. For other governors, that might evoke fear in his subjects. For Pilate, whom it was easy to tease and send into a childish sulk, it only made him a bigger target. “I’d have thought better of you.” 

Pain lingered in that last word. Pilate’s anger was fading, leaving his hurt raw and visible. The governor was fond of him, Claye knew. Inebriated, he had once confessed to considering Claye a friend, a favourite even. Sober, he had upgraded his position twice since their recent relocation to Judea. On occasion, he treated Claye as a near equal. Disrespect from him would be quite the blow.

Chewing the tip of his thumb, Pilate kept his gaze on Claye’s. “I want you to think vewy hard about your answer to my next question, Centuwion.”

Claye stood straighter.

“Did you call me an ‘impedimented impewator’?” Pilate flung an arm against the arm of his chair, sending the braid and chain across his chest shuddering. The outburst reminded Claye of a child stamping their feet, only more… elegant.

Someone had been spying on him. Someone whose word Pilate trusted more than his. When he found out who… 

Claye’s pause had Pilate’s eyes watering, as though he’d already predicted his confessing to disobedience and would therefore need to be dismissed. Beneath golden laurels and ivory drape, beneath authority that with a single word could have Claye thrown into a cell, a lip-wobbling, emotional boy pleaded with all his soul to be proven wrong.

“Sir,” Claye said, stepping forward. He dropped down onto one knee at the base of the steps. “Allow me to prove my loyalty.”

Such a statement didn’t answer the question, didn’t confirm or deny his involvement with the silly nickname he had absolutely used, but it piqued Pilate’s interest. He sat straight at the edge of his seat and peered down at him, curious. 

“And how do you hope to achieve that?” 

Pressing a clenched fist to his breastplate, Claye bowed low. “Whatever test you may devise, sir, I will champion it. I will go beyond my duty, beyond our friendship.” He craned his neck to meet Pilate’s eyes again, appealing to his insecurities, bargaining with their connection. Flattery he’d save until last. “Whoever is responsible for this despicable nickname, I’ll personally have them—” 

Pilate raised a sharp hand, silencing him. “How am I supposed to twust you if you cannot be honest with me?” He threw himself back into the cushions in a sulk. “I know you did it.”

Pained, acting his heart out, Claye tried again. “I would never lie to you, sir! I would never disrespect you.” But Pilate was unmoved. This wasn’t going well, was it?

“You deny me the twuth even now, where I ask you man to man.” He pressed his palms to his face and shook his head. “You force my hand...” 

And that was it, wasn’t it? He was going to dismiss him from his position over hearsay.

Leaping to his feet, Claye rushed up the steps and did something dangerous, something he’d never done: touched his superior. Grabbing Pilate by the wrist, he tore his hand from his face. “I deny nothing but the accusation!”

Pilate was shaken, a tremor running through him as he stared wide-eyed at his centurion. Claye towered over him when they stood side by side. Now, hunched over his seated form, he must’ve seemed all the more threatening. 

“How dare you touch me!” Pilate glared at Claye’s fingers locked around his wrist and made no effort to retract himself from them. “What possesses you to—”

“You’ve stirred passion within me, sir!” Claye gripped harder, digging his fingertips into Pilate’s skin until he squirmed in discomfort. “To be accused of disloyalty while being unable to prove it—” 

“Y-you can pwove it,” Pilate stuttered, swallowing, his eyes flitting from Claye’s to where he gripped him. He was breathing hard, a fresh flush of colour high on his cheeks. “You… you…” With him unable to get out further words, Claye filled in.

“How, sir?” he asked softly. 

Breathless, Pilate managed to speak. “You pwove it now, so moved by this passion you speak of that you, you manhandle me.” His eyes fell to where Claye still held him, wetting his lips with his tongue. “You dare to go above your station.” He said it in an impressed whisper, his shock gone.

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

When his grip softened, Pilate stopped him before he released his arm. He gripped Claye’s wrist guard with that hand, and with his other, reached out to his chest plate, fingers fanning against brushed bronze. 

“You should…” He swallowed, eyes heavy. “…dare again.” Teeth pressing dimples into his lower lip, he let his gaze wander over Claye’s chest, his palm sliding reverently over his armour’s gold. “Continue to, pwove it to me.” 

Claye thought he understood. Sliding his hand to Pilate’s throat, he encircled his fingers around it as he had his wrist, slow, deliberate. Pilate lifted his chin obediently, eyes fluttering closed as he sighed. “Like this, sir?” Claye asked. Squeezing softly, he got his answer in the way Pilate’s head tipped back in trust, his cheeks flooding pink. 

“Cowwect,” Pilate breathed. 

Claye ran his thumb over Pilate’s mouth. It was soft, damp, his lips parted so that the tip of his thumb dipped inside easily. He dragged that plush lower lip down without hearing a word of protest, baring teeth that would not bite; as if to prove that—to himself or to Pilate—he thumbed along the sharp edges of his bottom set. The man shuddered in his grasp, a timid whimper echoing in the hall’s silence. 

Nobody touched Pilate. His only physical contact was probably his servants dressing him. Every moment, he was flanked by bodyguards who stopped anyone stepping remotely close to him, keeping him isolated and high on his pedestal. The poor man was clearly starved for human touch and liked it to be a little more than that. He sought a firm hand.

Leaning closer, Claye spoke low into his superior’s ear. “Why don’t you give me an order then, sir?” It was a test, mostly, to see if Pilate would ask, speak his desires aloud. 

Pilate’s hands wandered slow as Claye held him, sliding over broad biceps and shaped shoulder guards. His eyes were heavy, breaths shaken, seemingly lost in the sensation. It was almost as though he hadn’t heard the question.

Claye risked, “Unless you want me to give you one?” Their eyes met. “That is, an order I mean.”

“That would be vewy daring,” Pilate said against the tip of Claye’s thumb, lips catching his skin. 

Sliding a hand into the warm folds of Pilate’s toga, Claye braced his waist briefly before pulling the cloth into his fist. Again, without Pilate’s protest, he tugged him from his seat like he weighed no more than a child and was not surprised when he fell against him. Chest to chest, Pilate’s smaller stature was more evident, but he appeared untroubled by it. Pressing his forehead to Claye’s armour, he breathed him in. An obvious erection pressed a shape through his toga and rubbed boldly against Claye’s bare thigh. And oh, that had Claye’s blood running hot.

“What was that owder, Centuwion?” Pilate’s voice was thick with arousal, enough that it moved Claye, had something flickering to life in his groin. It had been a while since he’d had time to lay with anyone. Pilate’s lisp was thicker too, so Claye pressed his thumb to his lips, silencing him.

“Patience, sir.” 

Lifting Pilate from his feet, he shifted him aside and took his seat at the cushioned chaise, bold as brass. Leaning back, he pursed his lips at how stricken with shyness Pilate appeared, the observed guest before his master, the tables turned. Squeezing white cloth into his fists, Pilate peered at Claye nervously. His eyes widened when Claye swept his pteruges aside, revealing he hadn’t had time to slip on undergarments when dragged from his bed in the middle of the night. Additionally, revealing his half-stiff prick.

Pilate dropped to his knees then and there upon that highest step, ducking his head like a worshipper at a shrine to lick Claye’s proffered prick. Claye had never suspected Pilate was into this sort of thing, but it made sense somehow. And what if it didn’t? Pilate’s pink tongue was shy, peeking out to lap over the head of Claye’s prick, tracing the vein along the underside as he stiffened further against that passive mouth. Man or woman, this would always feel good. 

“That’s it,” Claye breathed, encouraging the young governor with a hand at the back of his neck. Pilate sucked him properly then, drawing him into his warm, wet mouth and sucking with such eagerness he gagged. Claye drew his fingernails over Pilate’s scalp, displacing his laurels until they clattered to the marble and tumbled down the steps. “Take your time… there’s a good boy.” 

Pilate shuddered in pleasure at what was indeed an insult, breathing hard through his nose while his mouth was otherwise engaged. Dethroned and stripped of his crown, he still managed to hold himself with dignity. And for someone with—Claye suspected—absolutely no experience of pleasuring another person, he was doing remarkably well. Enthusiasm got him far. Despite the odd scrape of teeth, Claye could’ve lost himself to this, spent down the man’s eager throat and been done with it.

Instead, Claye grabbed a handful of Pilate’s mussed hair and tugged it hard, forcing him up from his knees as he squirmed in delicious pain.

“Take your throne,” Claye teased, tugging him onto his lap so he was forced to straddle him. 

He was small and easy to manipulate, but there was still a moment of fumbling with his toga’s plentiful cloth. The white fabric draped Claye’s lap, body warm and pooling over him, enveloping him alongside Pilate’s thighs. Leaning in close, Pilate braced himself against the armour he so admired and pleaded in a whisper, “Please, Centuwion. Do with me what you will.” 

A hand between their warm bodies, Claye angled his saliva-slick prick against Pilate’s soft backside and whispered an order for him to sit. He sank back onto him impatiently, almost too impatiently, drawing all the breath from Claye’s lungs as he took him to the hilt in one slow slide. It had been a few years since he’d shared with a man. The male body’s tight, unforgiving grip was intense, but Pilate, Pilate was… fuck. This snobbish little virgin, writhing on his prick as his arsehole twitched and stretched, hands clawing white-knuckle at his armour, could’ve had him spending right there. 

“Be still,” Claye hissed through clenched teeth. Pilate obeyed immediately. 

The sight of him sat upon him, reduced to this frail, helpless, shivering little thing, almost had Claye pitying him. He stroked his face, drinking in the texture of his smooth, perfect skin against his battle-rough palms. Every part of Pilate was baby-soft, sweet-smelling, his pampered body supple and pliant from youth and years of luxury. There was no hard muscle beneath his toga from training, no scars on sun-leathered skin. Claye groaned as he stroked up under his cloth, feeling the curves of him. Puppy fat and soft edges. Feminine in a way. Almost beautiful.

Compelled to thrust up into his warmth, Claye held him by the hips, keeping him in place so he had no choice but taking the impaling press of his sabre-hard prick. Pilate moaned, a delightfully high-pitched sound, pathetic and overwhelmed. When he collapsed against him, Claye grabbed his wrists and righted him again, gripping hard as a reminder of his strength. 

“Take what you’re given like a man,” Claye demanded, and Pilate’s eyes rolled back. “The lowest of my men would behave better.” He arched again, sinking into Pilate’s tight depths, gritting his jaw at how he keened so elegantly, how velvet soft he was on the inside.

The adornments on Pilate’s body trembled as he kept himself seated, behaving as he had been told. “Do you… punish your men so?” he asked, voice weakened by arousal. 

“If they’re disobedient.” Pilate’s delighted gasp sounded pained too, his fingers digging into Claye’s shoulders as he no doubt fantasied about being used like a common soldier by the head of his century. 

If it added to Pilate’s fantasy and kept him his job, Claye would say anything. There were a few of the soldiery he’d lain with in his years, but he hadn’t taken them to bed for disciplinary measures. No, Claye had been in need and they’d been willing and pretty. Pretty as men could be. Like Pilate, he supposed. 

Sitting up, he pressed his face to Pilate’s chest and inhaled his scent. Despite the sheen of sweat on his skin, his perfume was like honey, milk-sweet and pleasant. Claye was used to leather and metal, the sweat, dirt, and death of the field beneath a hot Judean sun. Pilate was a glimpse of paradise compared to that, a mirage in the desert. He dug his fingers into Pilate’s waist and rocked him on his prick, hissing through his teeth at how fluidly his hips danced for him, how divine he felt around his prick. 

Pilate’s hand slid over Claye’s cheek guard, idly stroking up to his crest. The tall, blood-red feathers of a centurion’s plume were his pride and glory, a symbol of his status. Grabbing Pilate’s wrist, Claye tore his hand from them.

“I told you to sit still,” he warned. Pilate wanted orders, didn’t he? “If you keep disobeying, I’ll take you on your back, here on the floor like a common whore.” 

Shivering but still, Pilate countered, “Would you not rather take me in my bed?” The raw desperation on his face almost compelled Claye to say that yes, he did, for he knew there was nothing Pilate wanted more than to be carried to his chamber and screwed until the morning sun rose, and there was nothing Claye wanted more than to please his leader. Best not be hasty, though; he’d have another bargaining chip if Pilate got upset with him again. 

“I choose to have you here,” he said, smoothing his palm along the throne’s black granite. “And every time I see you sat here, I’ll remember you seated upon me, letting me fuck you.” 

Pilate bit his lip hard. “Then fuck me.” That word from his mouth… It did things to Claye he hadn’t thought possible before tonight. “Unless you are all talk.”

The dare was a ruse to fire Claye up, get Pilate what he wanted, but no man challenged him and got away with it. Holding him by his waist, Claye planted his feet into the marble and thrust up hard, their bodies thudding together, the power of the movement forcing the air from Pilate’s lungs. He did it again, muscles straining from the effort, though the reward was worth it a thousand times over. Pilate felt sublime, looked so too as he took a prick willingly, bliss melting across his features. 

Pilate slid a hand beneath his toga to stroke his own prick, draped cloth lifting like a theatre curtain to reveal where Claye was buried inside him, legs spread wide for his subordinate. Oh, Jupiter. Claye sank back into the chaise, sliding down its carved curves to see more of that wonderful sight. But that alone wasn’t enough. He reached between them again and felt where he had Pilate split, the muscle stretched, swollen, silk soft.

“Oh, Claye…” Pilate sighed, and his name, that intimacy, had Claye collapsing against the cushions, balls pulling tight. He longed to hear that name fall from Pilate’s mouth in bliss again, strip him naked and touch every inch of him, hold him down and fuck him until he wept. 

They moved together, Claye driving in as Pilate took what he was given, stroking himself, stroking Claye’s armour, a blissed-out smile painted upon his panting mouth.

Unsurprisingly, Pilate met his end first. He trembled with the effort of holding himself up as he came into his hand, his hot seed dripping thickly onto Claye’s bare thighs moments before he filled him with his own. The hot load Claye gave him painted Pilate wet inside, the soaking glide of his prick so sublime that Claye almost tore his master’s toga from his shoulders as he gripped at him, fucking up into him with the reserves of his energy, his softening prick betraying his desire to continue.

He felt boiled alive in his armour, perspiration trickling beneath his helmet, sticking his hair to his nape. Pilate collapsed against him, still stuffed full of him, smothering him in the weight of his body, his cloth, panting hot against his throat. 

“Kiss me,” Pilate breathed, and it was only this moment of madness that had Claye following such an unusual order. 

Pilate’s lips were soft, hungry, his mouth opening submissively as Claye’s tongue slid inside to claim it. Their bodies stayed joined, Claye’s aching prick stiff enough to keep his seed plugged inside. He bucked gently, Pilate gasping against his tongue, his boyish hand crawling to Claye’s neck and holding on. 

Claye gently pulled his hand away, bringing it to where they kissed gentle as lovers. Turning a little, he broke the kiss and drew Pilate’s fingers into his mouth. Pilate watched, mouth agape, as he sucked them slowly, showing his appreciation. 

“You aren’t the bwute I expected, Centuwion,” Pilate said, nestling his head in the crook of Claye’s shoulder. He slid his fingers from Claye’s tongue and dragged them, wet, along the grain of stubble at his jaw. “I thought you’d take me like a savage, but you’re a suwprisingly gentle beast.” 

Claye had never been called anything like gentle before. As his prick slipped free of Pilate, he sensed them both mourning the loss of their connection. There was something deeper at play here. It wasn’t only a soldier proving his loyalty and a pampered freeborn demanding something of him. Clarity of thought was often distilled following coitus, but all Claye wanted to do was wrap his arms around Pilate’s waist and hold him. So, he did. 

“Tell me, Centuwion,” Pilate whispered, nuzzling closer. The weight of his body was pleasant, made Claye feel happily drowsy. “If I asked you to accompany me to my bed chamber, would you do so from pewsonal desire or in devotion to a governor of the Wroman Empire?”

Claye thought about it and, for once, didn’t consider what Pilate would want him to say. “Half and half,” he confessed. If he had the energy to fuck him again before sunrise, he’d happily do so. If Pilate simply wanted to sleep with a warm body at his side, well, Claye could relate.

Pilate smiled. “Good enough.”


End file.
